HOUSES, AJACCIO. [Page 34.]
Paoli’s life in London was, after all, a fairly pleasant one, for not only had he money to spend, but he knew Johnson, Sir Joshua Reynolds, and all the leading men of the day. He lived in good style, and Dr. Johnson says that he “loved to dine” at the General’s house. About six months before Johnson died he was entertained by Paoli, and Boswell tells us: “There was a variety of dishes, much to his [Johnson’s] taste, of all of which he seemed to me to eat so much that I was afraid he might be hurt by it, and I whispered to the General my fear, and begged he might not press him. ‘Alas!’ said the General, ‘see how very ill he looks; he can live but a very short time. Would you refuse any slight gratifications to a man under sentence of death?’ There is a humane custom in Italy by which persons in that melancholy situation are indulged with having whatever they like to eat and drink, even with expensive delicacies.” Boswell makes the General speak like a master of English. That he did not actually talk like this we know from other writers, and by way of conclusion we may tell another little story in his own words. While he was residing in London, he was one day taken to see an Irish giant that was then on show. He says, “He is so large I am as a baby! I look at him—oh, I find myself so little as a child. Indeed, my indignation it rises when I see him hold up his hand so high. I am as nothing, and I find myself in the power of a man who fetches from me half a crown.”
CHAPTER X
IN BUSH AND FOREST
There are some scholars who say that the word “Corsica” means the “Land of Woods,” and that this name was given to the island at a very early time by the Phœnicians. Several of the old writers, when mentioning Corsica in their works, describe it in some such terms as “shaggy and almost savage with woods.” At one time Corsican timber was amongst the best known, and there are still a number of fine forests left. But what strikes the visitor most is the way in which the island is clothed with flowering shrubs. These are collectively known as the maquis. The maquis is that feature which distinguishes the island of Corsica from all other islands. It is not a forest, but an immense thicket. So closely is it interlaced that a shrub rarely becomes a tree. If the thick tangle be cut down, it grows again with wonderful rapidity. The stems of one kind of flowering shrub have been known to grow as much as 5 feet in a single year, 3½ feet in the spring, and 1½ feet in the following autumn. The chief plants which together form the maquis are the arbutus, which bears white flowers, purple fruit, and shiny leaves; the myrtles, with their snow-white blossoms; the cistus, scenting the air with the odour of honey; and great flowering heaths, with white and rose powdered tufts. This carpet of shrubs stretches from the bottoms of the valleys to the tops of the mountains, rolls over and around the rocks, finds its way into hollows and ravines, and fears neither torrent nor gorge. In spring, when the different shrubs all burst into bloom, the hill-sides are a mass of flowers. As the hot sun beats down upon the blossoms, it causes them to exhale a peculiar smell, strong, but not unpleasant. This odour can even be detected far out at sea when the wind is blowing from the shore. It is so unlike any other odour that, once known, it can never be forgotten. Napoleon is reported to have said, “Put me blindfold on the shore of my native land, and I should recognize it by the perfume of the maquis.”
The Corsicans do not admire this beautiful covering. They have little love for Nature, and few of them ever think of travelling in search of the beauties of mountain, moor, or wood. They are fond of the company of their fellow-men, and like to live in towns. They leave to “mad Englishmen” the task and the delight of roaming about on their flower-decked hills. They would rather see a garden of onions than a plantation of pines; they would rather look at a row of carrots than a grove of beech. But though they do not admire the beauty of their surroundings, they do not despise them. If the shrub is a poor thing to look at, yet it has certain uses which they keenly appreciate.
Corsica possesses no coal, and the people in the mountain villages are too poor to buy it even if it were imported. The villagers depend for fuel on the wood that grows at their very doors, using it both in the form of logs for firewood and of charcoal. Charcoal takes the place of coal for cooking purposes, and not only is it manufactured for home use, but hundreds of tons are exported every year to France, Spain, Italy, and Sardinia. The method of making charcoal appears very simple, but great care and experience are necessary to avoid wasting the wood. The black-faced, black-handed charcoal-burners cut down the thick stems of the arbutus and other plants, and stack them in a heap. Round this heap smaller pieces of wood are arranged, till the whole pile is something of the shape of an enormous plum-pudding. The mound is covered over with green leaves and earth. A hole is left in one side of the heap, and through this a fire is lighted. In about ten days the mass of wood is reduced to charcoal. To get a ton of charcoal it is necessary to cut down nearly a quarter of an acre of strong, healthy shrubs—that is, to destroy about eight tons of brushwood. In this way much of the maquis is continually being destroyed, but so rapidly do new plants spring up that the harm done is not nearly so great as would at first be expected.
The bush is also cut down for use as firewood, for though charcoal is used in the kitchen, logs are burned in the “parlour.” Cutting and selling firewood is quite an important occupation. Some of the work is done by boys, but as a rule it is the barefooted, bareheaded women who toil with the axe upon the hill-side, and come home in the evening heavily laden, bearing their bundles on their heads. A Corsican woman seems to carry everything except her baby on her head—boxes, firewood, water, and provisions. If by any chance a man be seen transporting firewood, he is as often as not dragging it along on a trolley. He is not fond of carrying heavy articles.
The firewood is not good of its kind; it soon sinks down, and leaves a heap of ashes. To keep it glowing, someone must be continually blowing it. As a peasant said to me once, “It takes four people to make a wood fire—one to cut, one to carry, one to light, and one to blow.” What the log-fire lacks in cheerfulness it makes up in heat. It is wonderful how much warmth is sometimes given out by what appears to be a mere heap of ashes and dead wood.